


Incarcerated

by luxcurious



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Carl Grimes, Bad Parenting, Canon Gay Character, Canon-Typical Violence, Canonical Character Death, Carl Grimes Has a Crush, Carl Grimes deserved better, Carl Grimes has PTSD, Cegan, Character Study, Child Abandonment, Child Abduction, Child Death, Child Neglect, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Dark Past, Don't Have to Know Canon, F/M, Gay Carl Grimes, Getting to Know Each Other, Hurt/Comfort, I don’t actually hate canon Shane but this story does so whatever, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Lori Grimes and Rick Grimes are Divorced, M/M, Mental Anguish, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Minor Character Death, Minor Lori Grimes/Shane Walsh, Multiple Canon Character Deaths, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, No Apocalypse, No Smut, Non Apocalyptic AU, Non-Canon Relationship, Non-Canonical Character Death, Not that I actually follow canon at all but whatever, OOC Lori Grimes, OOC Shane Walsh, One-Eyed Carl Grimes, Oops, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Carl Grimes, PTSD, Past Abuse, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Character Death, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Plot Development, Prison AU, Prison Systems, Protective Carl Grimes, Rick Being an Asshole, Sad Carl Grimes, Shane Walsh Bashing, Shane Walsh Being an Asshole, Shane Walsh Has Issues, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Teen Carl Grimes, Therapy, but there will be fluff and established relationships, carl!centric, character driven, i may have character projected a wee bit too much, incarceration, ish, kind of, like a lot of it, more like their bad parenting is just exaggerated, more like why did you do it mystery, ooc Rick Grimes, reeeeeeeeeally slow, show canon only, sorry I just don’t roll like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-04 08:27:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10272416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luxcurious/pseuds/luxcurious
Summary: [!SPOILERS IN THE TAGS!](Non-Apocalyptic Prison AU)Carl Grimes was the kind of kid your mother warned you about.From petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon, the boy was bad news. He should've been locked up years ago, but his Sheriff Father always managed to keep that from happening. Until now.19 and sentenced to twenty-five years in federal prison, Carl is determined to survive incarceration. But when the first thing he does is piss off the one guy everybody seems to be afraid of, he comes to realize that might be a lot harder than he previously thought.





	1. Might Go To Hell And There Ain't No Stopping

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a prompt on tumblr from the wonderful @ at-least-cry-a-little

“Guilty.”

The single word rang through the mostly empty courtroom, sticky, hot, and final. Two simple syllables, swirling like a humid summer breeze on a sunny day, laid themselves over the cherry-stained mahogany of the defendant’s table. They crawled up Carl’s arms, encasing him, trapping him, _damning_ him. Six letters, six fucking letters, and the 19 year old’s life was ruined forever.

“Carl Xavier Grimes, you are hereby sentenced to twenty-five years in federal prison, effective immediately.” The Judge’s voice was harsh and unforgiving. She’d served this sentence too many times to count, knowingly destroying the lives of hundreds of young adults. Carl knew this, knew she was the toughest judge in Macon county, but he hadn’t been worried. He’d foolishly believed his Father would save him once again, just as he’d done every other time his son was called to court.

But who could blame him? Ever since he was thirteen, the Grimes boy had been getting in trouble with the law; from petty theft to assault with a deadly weapon. But Rick Grimes was the town’s Sheriff, and he did whatever it took to protect his son. So, most of the teen’s juvenile plights had been swept under the rug.

But that was the past. Before Carl had turned 18. Before he’d fallen into a situation not even his stubborn, law-bending Father could pull him out of. Before Carl Grimes was convicted of murder.

“Dad!” Carl yelled, eye widening as the security officers began to lead him away, out of the court room. “Dad! Do something!”

Rick just stared sadly after his son, regretful tears swimming in his bright blue orbs. “I’m sorry,” he mouthed, before slowly walking away, turning a deaf ear to his eldest child’s soul-shattering cries. “I’m so sorry.”

Carl watched in horror as his father walked away from him, body going limp in the arms of the guards. They silently dragged him down a long corridor, the thud of their heavy footsteps in perfect sync.

The one-eyed teen let his chin hit his chest, all the defiance seeping out of him like air from a balloon. He couldn’t believe this was really happening, that he was really going to _prison._ It was as if everything bad he’d ever done had finally caught up to him, and suddenly, all his regrets hit him at once.

“I’m sorry,” Carl moaned, clutching the sides of his head desperately. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it! I’m sorry!”

The guards just glanced at their charge from the sides of their eyes, pushing open the door when they finally reached the end of the hall. Continuing to drag the now crying teen to the transport bus, they made him stand, patting him down as a precaution.

“I’m sorry!” Carl repeated, a look of pure desperation on his face. “Please, you have to believe me! I’m sorry!”

The guard who was patting him down suddenly looked up, a calculating look on his face. He stood slowly, assessing the young adult before him.

“I believe you,” he answered, nodding his head. Carl visibly relaxed, a small, yet relived, smile settling over his tired face.

“You do?” He asked, voice hopeful.

The guard nodded again, expression turning solemn. “I do,” he spoke, tone strangely cold. “But no one else will.”

At Carl’s slightly dropped draw and widened eye, the guard continued, words harsh. “Look, kid. You did some bad shit, and now you have to pay for it. Twenty-five years is letting ya off easy, in my opinion. But if you want to survive in there,” he pointed to the side of the transport shuttle, where the words “MACON COUNTY PRISON” were written in big bold letters, “you better toughen the fuck up and quit your cryin’, ya hear?”

Carl nodded quickly, clamping his mouth shut and letting his long hair fall into his face, hoping to mask some of his fear.

“Good,” the guard finally whispered, turning away to open the doors to the back of the bus. “Now get in.”

***

The ride to Carl’s new home was silent and miserable. The teen was left in near total darkness, the cold metal walls caging him inside acting as his only companion. He held his throbbing head in his hands, body bent over so his nose touched his knees. He took deep, shuddering breaths, trying to quell the urge to cry. Carl had known since the beginning that if he ever ended up in prison, he would need to forfeit all emotions–to become as cold and unbreakable as a thousand year old statue.

By the time the doors of the shuttle swung open, Carl was sitting up ramrod straight, a disinterested glare settled across his features. His hair was shoved messily behind his ear, leaving his off white bandage on full display. The gauzy material covered almost half his face, including his left eye socket. The only reason he’d been allowed to keep it on was because his wound was still fairly fresh from being reopened, and sometimes it would begin to bleed randomly.

“Get up.”

The gruff voice of a new guard caused Carl to glance towards the opening of the bus, and he slowly rose to his feet, keeping a leaden weight on his feelings as he carefully stepped down, soles of his shoes hitting the gravel with a thud. The teen let himself be guided into a grayish building by two men wearing full riot gear, ignoring the sensation of a thick metal chain dragging between his wrists and ankles.

Upon entering the prison, the first thing that garnered Carl’s attention was the sheer amount of security the building had. Cameras, electronic locks and control pads, gates upon gates, and a guard with riot gear at every turn. The teen allowed a single brow to raise in slight incredulity, voice carefully closed off as he spoke.

“Expecting something big?” He asked, nodding towards his observations.

One of the guards guiding him along the dim corridor they’d entered looked toward him, but his face was shrouded by the dark mask he wore, leaving his expression a mystery.

“You,” he said after a moment, turning his gaze forward again, conveniently missing the brief terror that flashed across Carl’s face.


	2. Throw Me In A Box With The Oxygen Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl tries to make a good first impression.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (1) homophobic comment, mild violence, vague flashbacks, mentions of murder (duh)

The induction exam was long.

Very long, and very boring, Carl recalled as he stood in his currently empty cell, staring at the bed that was now going to be his for the next twenty-five years.

For the exam, he'd been checked out by a doctor–Carson was his name–then by a psychiatrist, Denise. He much preferred the latter of the two, as her disposition was exponentially calmer and more humble than her counterpart's.

They'd both asked increasingly personal questions, to which Carl answered with increasingly outrageous lies. They may have stolen his freedom, but he'd be damned if they got his dignity, too.

"So yer the one e'erybody's talkin' 'bout."

The gruff voice startled Carl, and on instinct, he spun on his heel, striking a defensive position. In his hand was an empty syringe he'd managed to snatch from Carson's office, and the intruder's eyes were drawn to it, a spark of amusement visible in his faded blue irises.

"Impressive," Blue Eyes admitted with a dry chuckle. "How'd ya get it?"

Carl stayed silent, taking the chance to asses the man leaning up against his cell door.

He was dirty, the teen noticed, but not uncomfortably so. Long, slightly greasy, brown hair hung limply in his eyes, though the man's vision didn't seem to be impaired by it.

He was buff, too. Especially so in his arms. Carl may have even found the mystery man attractive if they were meeting under different circumstances.

"I asked ya a damn question, kid," Blue Eyes finally snapped, having grown impatient. "How the fuck did ya get the syringe?"

Carl glared at the man with his good eye, before turning back to his bunk. "Nice of you to leave the bottom one for me," he said instead, not sounding thankful in the least. The teen heard a scoff behind him and smirked slightly, amused by the other man's agitation.

"Y'know, kid, just cuz yer in fer murder don't make ya some untouchable god," Blue Eyes warned.

Carl stiffened slightly, voice going dangerously low as he spoke.

"How do you know what I'm in for?" He asked through clenched teeth, halting his task of setting up his bed.

"Yer all the guards 'ave been talking 'bout, kiddo," Blue Eyes said, and Carl could *hear* the sneer in his tone. "Because ya straight up killed a kid, or because they're excited for a... young thang like yaself to come 'round, I dunno know. But *e'erybody* in this joint knows who ya are 'n what ya're in fer. Cat's outta the bag, boy."

"Fuck you," Carl spat as he whipped around, eye narrowed in anger. "You don't know shit."

Blue Eyes huffed a loud laugh at that, pushing off from the cement doorway and getting up in Carl's space, teeth bared and nostrils flared.

"I've been in this fucking place for seven god damn years, boy. Don't fucking test me."

Carl glared defiantly up at the taller man, refusing to back down and show weakness. They stood like that, chest to chest, eye to eye, for a good minute before Blue Eyes rolled his shoulders, stepping back.

"Yer young, 'n I can tell ya'd make a good ally in here, so I'ma give ya another chance. Don't screw it up," the man's words seemed kind, but Carl heard the unspoken "or else" he'd refrained from adding. "Ma' name's Daryl. Ya are?"

The teen glanced at the Daryl's outstretched hand for only a second before grasping it firmly and shaking it; wary, yet slightly hopeful of the new alliance he'd just made.

"Carl. My name is Carl."

***

After Carl came to a truce with Daryl, he'd learned the man was technically his "guide," as the job befalls all senior cellmates when a newbie moves in. He didn't seem to bothered by it, and the teen was thankful for that.

For the next few hours, Carl listened to Daryl describe day-to-day life in prison in excruciating detail. The older man gave the teen exact schedules for every minute of everyday, stressing the fact that punishments for even the slightest disobedience were horribly severe. Carl raised a brow at some of the examples Daryl spoke of, having a hard time believing such things were allowed to happen.

"'N this one time, a newbie started a food fight, so the gau–"

Daryl's story was cut off as the cell doors reopened, squeaking loudly as they did.

"Dinner," the older man said as an explanation, hopping off of the top bunk and landing on the cement floor with a thud. "Piece of advice; try not ta piss anyone off. First impressions are just as important here as they are on the outs."

Carl nodded, following Daryl out of the cell silently, feeling stares from other inmates on his back as they walked further down the hall, towards the stairs.

"That must be the Sheriff's boy! The one who ganked the Governor's son!"

The tactless whisper caught Carl's attention, but he forced himself to ignore it, maintaining a perfectly disinterested glare, looking straight forward as he walked.

"Bet it was a lover's spat gone wrong, he looks like a fucking twink to me."

'Ignore it,' Carl mentally hissed to himself, biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. He couldn't piss anyone off, so that meant no snarky retorts–even to homophobic assholes.

"Ha, he does. The guards'll definitely like 'im."

Carl's tongue would be the size of a balloon by the time dinner was over if he had to hear anymore of these ridiculous comments, so he discreetly shoved past Daryl, trying to reach the dining hall as quick as possible.

When he finally made it, he glanced behind him to see where Daryl was, only to find he'd lost the older man in the crowd. Shrugging, he continued on to the counter anyway, the grumble of his stomach causing him to choose food over safety.

The teen grabbed a tray, setting it down with a clatter on the metal slab sticking out of the wall, a smudged pane of glass the only thing separating him from the gloppy stuff that he assumed was food.

"Just one scoop, please," he said to the gray-haired lady behind the counter, causing her to look up in surprise.

"You have such good manners," she said quietly, letting her gaze rake over Carl, though it wasn't predatory. "No one ever says please or thank you anymore."

Carl smiled sadly, dipping his head in acknowledgment. "Thank you, ma'am," he replied, taking an instant liking to her.

"Call me Carol," she answered with a smile, pouring a spoonful of fresh vegetables onto his tray, instead of the gross looking glop.

Carl's eye widened, and he glanced quickly between his tray and the cafeteria lady, waiting for her to tell him she'd made a mistake. Instead, she just winked at him conspiratorially.

"Thank you, Carol," he whispered before walking off, heading towards the table nearest the trash. He knew it would smell, and he assumed no one would want to sit there, meaning he'd be left alone.

Of course, he was wrong.

"Well would ya look at this?" A deep voice said from above Carl, a pair of large hands slamming down onto the table in front of him. "It's a newbie!"

Carl took a deep breath, closing his eye as he tried to calm himself. He was staring down at the tabletop, fork raised halfway to his mouth. His hair was hanging in his face, covering his bandage, for which he was silently grateful.

"Cat got your tongue, kid?" The voice taunted, and Carl had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from snapping back. He carefully placed his fork back onto his tray, settling his hands back in his lap. He wasn't going to engage–the jerk who was messing with him would get bored soon enough, and then Carl would be home-free again.

"You gonna fuckin' answer me, ya little shit?"

That damn voice was the only sound in the whole cafeteria, and the teen could tell that everyone was staring at him. Knowing he no longer had a choice, Carl finally looked up, surprised to see a startlingly handsome face staring at him with a shit-eating grin.

"If you don't recognize me, I'd say me being new is a safe assumption," he said, sounding bored.

Handsome Jerk raised his brows, grin growing impossibly wider.

"We got a badass over here!" He announced to the other prisoners, dark eyes alighting with interest and amusement. "Tell me, kid. Are the rumors true? Did you really kill the Governor's kid?"

Carl's insides were churning and his heart was beating rapidly, but he maintained his disinterested facade, keeping his glare constant.

"Would I be here if I didn't?" He asked sarcastically, rolling his eye.

Suddenly, the teen was yanked out of his seat, Handsome Jerk's fist tightened around his collar, their noses only a centimeter apart.

"Don't fucking sass me you little–"

Carl didn't think, he just reacted. The second he felt a hand on him, he reached into his boot, grabbing the syringe he'd stolen and jammed it as hard as he could into his attacker's arm.

"Argh!" Handsome Jerk yelled, letting Carl go as he clutched at his now bleeding shoulder. The teen wisely scrambled away, eyes darting back and forth, scanning for more threats. "What the fuck?!"

Carl saw two men starting to close in on him, and he ducked under the nearest table, speed crawling through the maze of legs and metal. He could hear an uproar go through the room belatedly, the crowd only now realizing what had happened.

The next few minutes were a blur of Carl dodging flailing legs, trying to lose Handsome Jerk's minions, and looking for a conveniently placed ventilation shaft he could escape through. Unfortunately, he wasn't doing too well accomplishing any of those tasks.

The teen felt a harsh pull on his right leg, causing him to flop onto his stomach, his other limbs slipping out from under him. His body was then dragged out from under the table, bumping into too many metal poles to count.

As he was stood up roughly, he saw the havoc all the other inmates were wreaking, and he screwed his eye shit tightly, knowing he'd fucked up big time.

"I've got Prisoner 288734," the person holding him said loudly, and Carl twisted around in confusion, wondering how another inmate would know his number.

Terror flooded the teen when he realized he wasn't being dragged out the doors of the cafeteria by one of Handsome Jerk's minions, but by a guard. He recalled all the horrible things Daryl had told him, and he began struggling desperately, instinct once again taking over.

"Stop fighting!" The guard hissed, tightening his grip on Carl. The action only made the teen more terrified, flashbacks of similar situations playing through his mind like a movie, causing an ear splitting scream to tear from his throat like a breath of fire.

"Get off! Get off! GET OFF! GET THE FUCK OFF!" He kept repeating the words like some sort of demented mantra, flailing his arms and legs wildly, hoping to harm the guard somehow. "GET THE FUCK OFF OF ME YOU FUCKING CREEP!"

Suddenly, Carl was no longer in the arms of the guard, but in a cold, three foot by three foot cell. The teen scrambled to his feet, pressing himself against the farthest wall, glaring at the guard standing in the doorway.

"Welcome to solitary, motherfucker," was the last thing he heard before the thick metal door slammed shut, leaving him in total darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's helped me bring this story to life! You all make my day :)


	3. Tough For You To Witness, But It Was For Me Too

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl has another run in with Handsome Jerk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is enjoyable for everyone!
> 
> WARNINGS: swearing, brief description of past violence

Three days.

That was how long Carl spent in solitary confinement, wasting away in the dark.

Throughout his whole time in the tiny cell he'd been unceremoniously tossed into, the door had not opened once; meaning he'd had no food, no water, no light, and no sanitary way to relieve himself. When he was finally dragged out of the metal box, he was half dead--his bandage was soaked through with blood, his prison uniform stained with piss, and his body too weak to even stand.

He was immediately brought to Carson’s office, where he was hooked up to an IV. The doc checked him out, declaring him severely dehydrated and mildly malnourished. Carl wanted to scream at him when he began change his bandages, but he found himself unable to do so. It was like his mouth was stuffed with cotton balls, leaving it as dry as the Sahara desert.

“Wa...ter,” he finally managed to say, causing Carson’s eyes to widen as he rushed to the sink, mumbling the whole way.

“Here you go--I'm so sorry I didn't give it to you earlier, I'm horribly forgetful, you see,” the doctor babbled on, wringing his hands nervously.

Carl just leveled a nasty glare at him, as he chugged the water from the small plastic cup desperately. “More,” he demanded, shoving it back into Carson’s hands.

Of course, the doctor obeyed, refilling the cup every time Carl asked. Around the twentieth lap from the sink and back, the teen finally started to feel rejuvenated again, though not very much.

“How was that legal?” He eventually rasped out, startling Carson with the new words. The doctor smiled at him sadly, a look of pity on his face. “It's not, son. But neither is what you did, so most people think it's a fair trade.”

Carl scowled at the man’s statement, disgusted by the truth it held. Yes, he'd done bad shit--a lot of bad shit, and yes he deserved to have to pay for it, but to be locked in a box with no food or water for days on end? No one deserved that, no matter what they'd done.

Sighing, the teen leaned back against the infirmary bed he was sitting on, letting his eye slip closed.

“Wake me up when September ends,” he told the doctor, smiling slightly at his own little joke. It seemed that happiness was going to be hard to come by for the next twenty-five years, so he'd take it every chance he got, no matter how small.

***

Carl had to stay in the infirmary for another two days before he was cleared to go.

His joints were still stiff from being in such a small space for so long, and he still couldn't keep down more than a few ounces of solid food at a time, but he was feeling a lot better otherwise.

He was escorted back to his cell by a guard, the squeaky grated door opening like a lion’s maw. The teen stepped inside carefully, meeting the hooded eyes of his cellmate, Daryl.

“Explain,” the older man ordered gruffly once the guard had left. Carl sighed wearily, sitting down on the edge of his bed as he rolled his shoulders.

“I stabbed Handsome Jerk,” he answered vaguely, taking off his boots before lying back on his cot.

Daryl ignored the strange nickname, instead pressing Carl for more information. “Why?” He asked loudly, pushing away from the wall he was leaning against. “Dammit, kid. I told ya not ta piss any’ne off!”

Carl shrugged, one of his hands finding its way into his hair, his long, slender fingers tugging at the roots.

“He was a jerk.”

Daryl nearly screamed in frustration, striding over to the pair of bunks and leaning ominously over the younger man's form.

“We’re all jerks, kid! Get fuckin’ used to it!”

Carl's fingers stalled, and he brought his gaze up to meet the older man’s; the disinterested glaze having once again covered his eye.

“Mhmm,” he answered absently, letting his eyelid shut slowly. “Get used to it. Got it.”

Daryl groaned angrily, stepping away, only to whip back around and punch the metal frame of the bunk beds. Carl didn't flinch, his tone almost amused when he spoke.

“Can you not? I spent three days in complete isolation, and I'm not re-used to loud noises yet.”

Suddenly, the cell was dead quiet, and Carl cracked his eye open, peering up at Daryl suspiciously from beneath his long lashes.

“Ya were in solitary fer three days?” The older man asked, shock evident in his voice. “The longest any’ne has ever been in the box is twenty-eight hours! Did they at least give ya food? Water?”

Carl stared at Daryl silently for a moment, deciding whether or not the man was being truthful. Eventually, the teen shook his head slowly, causing his cellmate’s jaw to drop.

“Fuck, kid. You're tougher than ya look.”

Carl raised a brow at Daryl’s statement, his stare still bored. “I did brutally murder a 19 year old boy,” he answered lightly, noticing how Daryl shifted the tiniest bit in discomfort.

“It… It was brutal?” He asked, voice partly curious, partly disgusted.

Carl forced a sadistic smile, letting the boredom fade from his eye as a red-hot vengeance filled it.

“Quite,” he answered, seemingly proud of himself. “The only part of him left intact enough to use for identification was the finger I cut off and shoved down his throat--severed part first, of course.”

The teen noticed the slight shudder that went through the older man as he lowered his gaze, subconsciously stepping back.

“That's… intense,” he answered, obviously regretting asking.

“Mm,” Carl hummed, twisted smile still warping his features. “Was fun, too.”

The teen received no answer, and after a moment, he felt the bed move slightly, signaling that Daryl was climbing the ladder up to his bunk.

“Goodnight, ally,” Carl couldn't help but say, taking an immense pleasure in having freaked out his “tough-as-nails” cellmate. In reality, the teen hadn’t garnered such joy from Kevin's--the boy he’d killed--death. But no one else needed to know that.

***

Carl woke to the feeling of being watched.

Carefully, the teen raised his eyelid, just enough so he could see through the fringe of his lashes. Daryl was standing in the corner opposite the bunks, arms crossed, staring intently at the teen. Humored, Carl let his eye shut again, smirk upturning one corner of his lips.

“Like what you see?” He asked suddenly, and though his eye was closed, he could tell that he'd made his cellmate nearly jump out of his tanned skin.

“No,” Daryl growled in both embarrassment and frustration, presumably at being caught watching Carl sleep. “I ain't in the business of corrupting teenagers like yaself. ‘Sides, I already got some’ne.”

Carl laughed, sitting up with a tired groan. “You can't corrupt me if I already am, Daryl,” he sassed, rolling his eye. “But good for you, man. Having a special person in your life is a blessing. Just… don't take advantage of it, or of them. Because they won't be around forever.”

The older man looked surprised to see a look of sadness and regret flash across the boy's face briefly, and was about to comment on it when the cell door opened, the familiar squeaking sound cutting him off.

“Breakfast?” Carl asked hopefully, his face flitting back into an almost childlike expression. At Daryl’s silent nod, the teen pumped his fist in the air, smile growing wider.

“Fuck yeah! I'm fuckin’ starvin’!” Throwing a creepily enthusiastic glance over his shoulder as he stepped out of the cell, he winked conspiratorially. “Literally, I'm starving. I haven't eaten solid food in five fuckin’ days!”

Carl then skipped down the hall, ignoring the baffled and/or angry looks he revived from the other inmates in his block.

‘I’m acting like fuckin’ Harley Quinn, aren't I?’ The teen asked himself exasperatedly, unable to control his sudden--and very disturbing--mood swing. He’d been that way for as long as he could remember; burning hot one minute, and frigidly cold the next.

“Look who it fuckin’ is!”

Carl had just entered the dining hall when the smug voice greeted him, and he immediately frowned, all traces of unhinged glee instantly gone.

“Ew,” he said simply, wrinkling his nose as he made to walk past Handsome Jerk and his minions, heading over to the food counter where he could already see the top of Carol’s gray head moving around.

“Not so fuckin’ fast, little’ serial killer,” Handsome Jerk chided, snapping his fingers. Suddenly, Carl felt a pair of hands grip each of his arms and he looked up quickly, only to find the same brutes from the other day.

“Mm, not smart,” he said lightly, though his voice held a note of warning. “I'd suggest you remove your grubby fingers from my bicep before I remove the skin from your face.”

Carl offered a twisted smile, making sure that both blonde man with the burned face and the brunette man with the mustache understood how serious his threat was. He felt both mens’ holds on him loosen slightly, before Handsome Jerk leveled them with a glare, and they tightened up once again.

“Kid, your empty threats mean jack shit to me,” he said in amusement, raising his brows. “Now sit your skinny ass down, we need to talk.”

Carl pretended to think for a moment, only to let his signature disinterested glare reclaim his features. “No thanks,” he answered in a bored tone, beginning to turn away.

Before he’d even took his first step, he was shoved down, forced into the seat across from the nuisance known as Handsome Jerk.

“It wasn't a fuckin’ suggestion, you little shit,” Handsome growled, leaning in close. Carl was uncomfortable with the proximity, but he didn't let it show. “Boy, I'm tryna do you a fuckin’ favor, but you're makin’ it very hard,” he added, glaring straight into the teen’s eye.

Carl was about to snark back, forcing himself to lean in as well, when he noticed Handsome’s gaze had shifted from the right side of his face to the left.

“What the fuck is that?” The older man asked loudly, craning his neck to get a better look. Carl felt panic spark within him, and he was about to do something stupid again, but his eye met Daryl’s anxious ones, and he forced himself to calm down.

“What the fuck is what?” The teen asked, playing dumb. He noticed that most of the inmates in the dining hall were once again staring at him and Handsome, the audience only making him even more nervous.

“That white shit on your face. It makes you look like a goddamn birthday present from fuckin’ Grandma,” he said honestly. “So what the fuck is it?”

Carl swallowed, memories flashing across the back of his eyelid whenever he blinked. “It’s a bandage, Sherlock,” he nearly hissed.

Handsome gave the teen a shit-eating grin, leaning back far in his chair. “A bandage? What, are you missing a fuckin’ eye, kid?” He asked, sounding as if the idea was ludicrous.

Carl felt the whole damn room hold it breath as everyone waited for his answer, and his gaze turned steely, almost baring his teeth when he finally replied.

“Yes.”

Handsome’s eyes widened, and after a moment, his smile turned lazy, his face coming closer to Carl’s again.

“I wanna see it.”

At the teen’s horrified face, the older man poured mockingly, visibly pleased by how the conversation was going. “C’mon, let me see it!”

Carl snarled, pulling out of the minions’ arms just far enough to startle Handsome Jerk when he snapped his jaws in the other man’s face.

“No,” he said seriously, his voice venomous.

“You stabbed me, kid!” Handsome finally yelled, having been shocked silent for a few seconds by Carl’s aggression. It had been the most outward sign of emotion the teen had shown during his entire time in the prison, and it had obviously surprised quite a few people, including the big bad himself.

“It's only fuckin’ fair that I get to see your eyeless hole!” The older man continued, making Carl flinch slightly at his crude choice of words.

When the teen made no move to unwrap his bandage, Handsome sighed overdramatically, nodding at his blonde minion. Immediately, the man removed one of his hands, grabbing the white band carefully hidden beneath Carl's hair before yanking it off, taking a few strands of the brown locks with him.

Carl hissed, beginning to wiggle around, trying to get away. Thankfully, his hair had fallen in front of his eye; not so thankfully, Blondy’s harsh tug had caused the recently reopened wound to bleed.

He felt the red tear slip down his cheek, and there was nothing he could do stop it. As it hung off his chin, Handsome noticed it, and his eyes widened once again.

“Shit, kid! Are you fuckin’ bleeding?” He exclaimed, causing Carl to shake his head furiously so the infernal liquid would drop to the tabletop and off his face.

“Of course I’m bleeding, you fuckin’ dumbass,” he spat, voice vicious and eye narrowed into a mere slit. “That's what fucking happens when some asshole orders his minion assholes to rip a fuckin’ bandage off. Or did you think I wore that thing for the heck of it? That I lived with the dirty, stinky bandage on my face 24/7 as a fashion statement? For fuck’s sake! You truly are as dense as the brick wall you resemble.”

Blimey apparently didn't appreciate his boss being told he looked like a brick wall, because the next thing Carl knew, a hand was on the back of his head, which was then immediately slammed down onto the metal table--hard.

“Dwight!” The teen heard Handsome bark angrily. But his voice was distant, and was hard to hear over the ringing in his ears.

“Well that fuckin’ hurt,” he mumbled groggily, shaking his head to try and clear it. In his disoriented state, Carl didn't realize that he'd accidentally flipped the hair out of his face, leaving his bleeding socket on full display.

After a moment of blinking rapidly while waiting for the pounding in his head to go away, the teen realized that the entire room was silent. He furrowed his brows, glancing up at Handsome Jerk, who’s shit-eating grin was back.

“Christ!” The man said loudly, eyes wide with glee and revulsion. “That is disgusting! No wonder you cover that up! Have you seen it? I mean, have you looked in the mirror? That is gross as hell. I can see your socket! I wanna touch it. Oh come on, can I touch it?”

Carl's bottom lip had started trembling early on in the speech, and by the time Handsome Jerk was finished insulting his deformities, the teen was nearly crying. Noticing, Handsome’s face fell, his tone almost sympathetic when he next spoke.

“Damn… Holy hell, kid… Look, I just--it’s easy to forget that you're just a kid. Y’know I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, or anythin’. I was just screwing’ arou--”

“Just forget it,” Carl whispered, body slumped in the grips of Handsome’s minions. He stared at the blood that was pooling on the metal tabletop, an emotionless glaze settling over his iris. “If I can forget that my eye was shot out by a friend gone ballistic, than so can you.”

With that, he mustered up the last of his strength to yank his arms out of the now loosened grip of the minions, relieved when they didn't reach for him again.

Carl walked slowly to the cafeteria doors, aware of the numerous eyes on his back. Halting in the metal frame, he let his fingers graze the cracks in the wall, turning his head to left, giving the whole crowd good view of his mutilated face.

“By the way; whichever one of you fuckfaces killed Shane Walsh… Watch your fuckin’ back.”

And without waiting for a response, Carl disappeared around the corner, leaving a silent dining hall behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this fic, you should check out my other Cegan one: The Deal
> 
> It's also co-authored by the wonderful @Mikanekokawaii :)


	4. Sweet Little Baby In A World Full Of Pain

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone from Carl's past pays him a visit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *turns into Taio Cruz and starts singing*
> 
> "I'M ONLY GONNA BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK BREAK YOUR HEART!"
> 
> Incase you didn't get my cleverer reference, consider this your warning: MAJOR ANGSTY FEELS AHEAD!
> 
> (See end notes for a more detailed list of trigger warnings).

Carl spent the rest of the day in his cell, grateful that Carson had told the guards to “go easy on him” for his first few days back. It was around two o’clock when Daryl came back, the top half of his orange jumper undone and tied around his waist. His torso was covered with nothing but a sweaty tank top, and Carl could see the beginnings of scars creeping out from under the fabric.

“I knew Walsh,” the older man finally said, drawing the teen’s eye away from his back. “The dude was a straigh’ up prick. Why you after ‘is killer?”

Carl had left the cafeteria earlier without retrieving his bandage, so when he turned to look right at Daryl, he noticed the slight widening of the other man’s eyes. Quickly shaking his hair into his face, the teen spoke.

“Because,” he answered, voice bored. “I was supposed to be the one to kill him.”

The words seemed to confuse Daryl, and he furrowed his brows, thinking hard. “Walsh was a police officer before, right? And yer daddy, he's the Sheriff. What could ya possibly have against ‘im?”

Carl rolled his eye, flopping back onto his bed. “Shane quit the force years ago,” he informed his cellmate. His voice then took on a darker tone, words sharp as he nearly spat them out. “But he never should've been called a cop. He doesn't deserve to have that title, even in death.”

Wisely, Daryl didn't respond, simply finishing whatever he was doing before walking back to the cell door.

“We’re out in the courtyard right now, if you want to come.”

When Carl didn't answer, the older man glanced over his shoulder, continuing his statement.

“If yer in need o’ shit ya shouldn't have, this is where ya get it.”

After a brief silence, the sound of metal grinding against metal could be heard, and then Carl was at his cellmate’s side, a devious smile crossing his face.

“Let’s go.”

***

“Grimes, you’ve got a visitor.”

Every person in the courtyard went dead silent, except for the prisoner in question; he merely raised a brow, not even looking up from the table he was sitting at.

“Peters, unless you're here to inform me that my Sheriff Father dragged his lazy ass all the way up here to tell his disgrace of a son--that would be me, by the way--he's busting me out of this joint, then I don't wanna see anyone,” Carl answered, tone casual.

“It's a young woman--says she's your fiancé.”

At this, the teen finally turned to face the guard he'd grown up with, an almost amused smirk crossing his features.

“And here I thought I was gay,” Carl said in faux innocence, causing Peters to roll his eyes with a huff.

“Whatever, Carl. If you don't want to see your freaky lesbo friend, that's your business, not mine.”

Just as Peters was about to turn around, Carl’s hand shot out, grabbing the guard’s arm tightly.

“I swear to fucking god, James Wesley Peters, if you ever talk about Enid like that again--”

“You'll what, Grimes? You're in prison. You can't do shit.”

Carl's sole eye narrowed, a dangerous smile turning his lips upward. He leaned in, only a centimeter away from Peters’ ear.

“Oh, James,” he laughed darkly. “That's exactly why I can.”

Pulling away, Carl let his thinly veiled threat soak in before fully releasing the guard's arm.

“Now take me to the Rhees.”

***

“Why are you here?”

Carl’s voice was cold and unaffected, and he gazed at the four person family on the other side of the glass with blatant disinterest.

“Carl…” Enid breathed into the phone, the clunky black receiver looking out of place next to her delicate face. Her lip trembled, and she bit it harshly. “Carl, I’m here because you're my brother. Maybe not by blood, but you are in every other way that matters.”

“We haven't seen each other in over three years, ‘Nids,” the nineteen year old answered, his voice going soft when he uttered his best friend’s childhood nickname.

Enid made a strangled noise between a gasp and a sob, her hand going to cover her face as tears sprouted from her eyes. Carl watched on stonily, his heart secretly breaking when Maggie placed a comforting hand on her adopted daughter’s shoulder.

When it was evident Enid couldn't say anymore for the time being, Glenn gently took the phone from her thin fingers, much to Carl’s surprise. He thought for sure that Maggie and Glenn would despise him, and had only come to make sure Enid didn't do anything stupid.

“Carl?” Glenn asked hesitantly. “Are… Are you--Are they... treating you… okay?”

Carl couldn't take it anymore. He'd been holding up the weight of this stony wall for much too long, and the concerned tone to the voice of his only father figure was enough to make him finally crumble.

His eye teared up, and he started scratching long red marks into his collarbone, the scoop neck of his jumpsuit giving him easy access to the sensitive skin. Everything was suddenly too much, and when he spoke, his voice was a raspy sob.

“No,” he whispered, feeling peels of skin roll up beneath his fingernails. “No, they're not.”

“Carl, stop!” Maggie gasped, raising her hand to cover her mouth in horror. “You're hurting yourself!”

Carl tiredly slid his eye to Maggie's, a look of pure pain settling like a fog over his iris.

“This isn't the first time I've hurt myself, Maggie,” he whispered.

His words were those of a broken man, and it dissolved the Rhee family into tears. Only the sound of muffled crying could be heard on both sides of the glass--and then suddenly, a sweet, angelic voice.

“Mommy? What's wrong?”

Carl’s gaze whipped up, the shattered pieces of his heart cracking even more. There, tugging on Maggie's purple shirt, was a dark haired little boy, blue eyes wide with innocence.

For a moment, Carl couldn't breathe. Those big blue eyes were much too similar to that of his sister's, as was that sweet cherub face and those rosy cheeks.

“How old is he?” Carl choked out, feeling blood start to drip down his sternum from all the scratching.

“Five,” Maggie whispered, pulling the boy into her arms and patting his back lightly.

Carl made the same strangled noise Enid had earlier, and he grasped at his throat, smearing the blood across his skin.

“Judy was five…” he whispered between tears. “She was five when that monster took her from me.”

“Carl…” Enid cried quietly, putting her splayed fingers to the glass divider.

“HE TOOK HER FROM ME!” Carl suddenly yelled, slamming his fists on the table. “BLAKE KILLED HER! HE KILLED MY BABY SISTER! HE TOOK THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERED TO ME!”

Carl felt hands close around his arms as he stood up, kicking his chair back.

“LET ME GO!” He screamed, thrashing about. “LET ME THE FUCK GO!”

“Carl! Carl, calm down!” Enid’s voice was distant over the stormy rage Carl was feeling. He knew he should listen, that he should stop and calm down, but he couldn't. He just couldn't.

Carl kicked the leg of the guard that was holding him, causing the man to fall, bringing the teen down on top of him. He scrambled up, knocking the guard’s limbs away from himself. He looked back at the window, seeing Enid, Maggie, Glenn, and Hershel Jr. being forcefully escorted out along with the other visitors, though the family of four was fighting to stay.

“No!” Carl screamed, launching himself at the glass divider. His head knocked against it with a thud, but he shook it off, dimly aware it would hurt like a bitch when his adrenaline faded. “Bring them back! Bring her back!”

A strong pair of arms wrapped themselves around Carl’s thin body, pinning his hands to his sides. The teen continued to thrash about, once again trying to escape.

“Calm the fuck down, kid,” a familiar voice growled against the nape of Carl’s neck, causing him to stall. He knew that low rasp--it was the same one that had been taunting him for the past week.

Handsome Jerk was the one currently restraining him.

The one with his arms around him.

Tightening painfully.

Panting breath assaulting his ear.

Sweaty skin slapping loudly on his.

Hands roaming all over his trembling body, taking advantage.

“Big boys make each other feel good, Carl. Don't you want to be a big boy?”

And then, there was screaming.

Glass shattering screaming, and it took Carl a moment to realize it was coming from his own mouth.

“Stop! Bring her back! I don't want this! Please, stop!” The teen was yelling incoherently, unable to keep his mind in the present. He felt like he was everywhere all at once, stuck back in every bad experience he'd ever had.

“Fuckin’ hell, kid! Are you bleeding?!”

Handsome’s oddly concerned voice slammed Carl back into reality, and as the fog cleared from his mind, he realized he was being half dragged, half carried out of the visitor’s area.

“Yes. Now let go of me,” the teen ordered, voice hoarse from screaming. He shrugged out of Handsome’s grip, only to see the floor rushing up to his face as he lost his balance, as he had become aware of a pounding like a bass drum in his head.

“Careful,” Handsome growled, snatching Carl around the waist before he hit the cement ground. “You took a pretty bad knock to the head back there--you might have a concussion.”

It took a moment for Carl to gather his bearings again, but once he did, he scowled. He reluctantly let the older man lead him down the hall to where he assumed was Carson’s office. He heard the yelling of guards behind them, and Handsome sped up, causing the teen to stumble.

“For fuck’s sake,” he grumbled, halting in his tracks just long enough to scoop Carl’s much lighter body into his arms, before beginning to sprint.

“Hey!” The teen protested, equal parts surprised, appalled, and embarrassed. “Put me down, old man!”

The prisoner in question simply glared at the path before him, rounding a corner fast enough to make Carl dizzy.

“Shut the hell up, I'm doing you a favor,” he snapped, banging his foot against the door of Carson’s office. Seconds later, it swung open, and Handsome shouldered past a very confused and shocked doctor, quickly kicking the metal door shut behind him. “Doctor, you've got a new patient.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Mild violence, mentions of child murder, brief implications of sexual assault, and (of course) swearing and incarceration


	5. R.I.P. To My Youth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Names are learned, secrets are revealed, and deals are made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> General Warnings: Swearing, Violence, and Mentions of Murder
> 
> (See end notes for more detailed warnings.)

“I swear to god, kid, if you stab me with a fucking syringe again, I’ll--”

Carl cut Handsome Jerk’s threat off with a sharp laugh, looking like caged animal as he stood crouched in the corner, empty syringe brandished like a dagger.

“Stay the _fuck_ away,” the teen hissed, narrowing his eye. “I don't even know your name, so why the fuck would I trust you?”

Handsome raised his brows, seemingly surprised. “I’m Negan,” he informed the boy casually. “And you're really making this a lot more difficult than it has to be.”

The second Carl heard the name, he was trying to match it to any of the criminals he’d ever crossed paths with. He knew that he'd never seen the man before, but he might've dealt with some of his cronies in the past. Any information on this ‘Negan’ character would help, but the teen seemed unable to come up with anything.

“Don't care,” he finally answered, the syringe glinting in the light as he shifted slightly. “How long you been locked up?”

If Negan was caught off guard by the question, he didn’t show it.

“A long ass time,” he replied vaguely. Sighing, he scrubbed a hand over his face, visibly annoyed. “Now that we've played ‘get-to-know-me,’ will you please put that down?”

Carl glared at Negan for a moment, contemplating. Finally, he lowered his weapon, tossing it onto the metal table beside him.

“Happy now?” The teen sneered, walking over to Carson, who had been watching the tense stand-off with cautious eyes.

“Very,” Negan replied just as sarcastically, crossing his arms. “Y’know, you should be grateful. If I hadn't brought your skinny ass down here, you'd be back in solitary right now.”

Ignoring the older man, Carl turned to the doctor, his signature bored gaze settling over his blue iris.

“Am I good to go, Doc?” He asked flatly, as if he would leave regardless of what the other man said.

“Well, yes, but--”

“Great,” the teen said, cutting Carson off. He turned on his heel, ready to leave, when a thought struck him. “Hey, Doc, I got a question for you. How did Shane Walsh die?”

The sudden silence that settled over the office was stifling, and the doctor shared a quick glance with Negan before looking back to Carl and clearing his throat loudly.

“Well, Carl, I--I can't disclose private information like that unless you're Mr. Walsh’s--”

Once again, the boy cut the doctor off, his voice sharp and slightly agitated.

“His family, yeah, I know. But since he was my step-father, I believe qualify.”

Carson’s eyes widened and his cheeks flushed, obviously embarrassed. He turned to his file cabinet and began rifling through it, making a small ‘aha!’ noise as he pulled out a thin manila folder marked “Walsh, S.”

“Uh, it says here that Mr. Walsh died of a stab wound to his abdomen obtained during a prison riot. Due to the chaos, he was unable to receive timely medical assistance, and unfortunately bled to death,” the doctor read, tone sympathetic.

“Did he suffer?” Carl asked quietly, his nails pressing crescent moons into his palms in anticipation.

“I--I’m afraid so, Carl. I’m very sorry--”

“Don't be. He deserved it.”

With that, the boy strode out of the room, footsteps heavy against the concrete floor of the hall.

***

The solemn pair of prisoners had been walking silently for a few minutes when Negan decided to speak up.

“I heard Walsh was--was a…” his voice was quiet, reserved. It was a drastic change from his usually boisterous tone, but the words he was currently choking on were much too serious for such flippancy.

Carl ground his teeth, turning to the older man with a snarl.

“Was a what?” He goaded, nostrils flaring. “A kiddie diddler? A baby banger? A pedophile? What the fuck did you hear, old man? Enlighten me. Tell me exactly who my stepfather was--what he did. It's not like I already know.”

At Negan’s shocked expression, the teen scoffed, nearly shaking in anger. “Like I was the only one who knew for five fucking years.”

“Kid--I--” Negan tried to speak, tried to apologize, to back track to before he’d even brought the subject up, but Carl cut him off, his voice as sharp and cold as a thousand ice picks.

“Don't fucking talk to me!” He seethed, spit flying from between his teeth like the poison of a cobra. “Don't you _ever_ fucking talk to me. Just leave me alone! For fuck’s sake, just _leave me alone._ ”

Before Negan could even process what had just happened, Carl dashed off, disappearing around the corner.

Unbeknownst to the older man, both bloody and clear tears were streaming down the boy’s face for the second time that day.

***

Carl needed a distraction.

Wiping furiously at his face, he headed to the shower hall, knowing it would most likely be empty, as everyone else was still in the courtyard. He wanted to be alone, but he _needed_ to be clean. He couldn’t stand feeling dirty, not since he was ten years old. He was aware the obsession was irrational, having stemmed from his own insecurities due to his abuse, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Shane and countless others had hurt him in such a way that he was now always dirty. Impure, _tainted_. And no matter how many times Carl had scrubbed his skin raw, it was never enough to wash it away.

Sighing loudly, the teen began to strip his bright orange jumper off, his sweaty tank top and boxers following. He stepped into the shower stall at the very back, hissing as the hot water burned his sensitive skin. It hurt, but _fuck_ did the pain feel good.

Taking the time to survey his own body, Carl ground his teeth together. A puckered gunshot wound on his lower abdomen-- _My first time hunting_ , he recalled, the memory almost making him smile. Next, a stab wound on his thigh, then a six inch scar from the tip of his sternum to the end of his collar bone, another stab wound on his side… All the scars just faded together. Except for the dozens of small nail marks on his hips. Those could never escape his notice, could never stay unremembered. He would forever be reminded of his deepest betrayal--it was written on his body like some kind of twisted children’s book.

Shaking his head and turning his face up to the warm spray of water, Carl pushed the thoughts aside, deciding he’d spent enough time moping around. He needed to finish up and get back to his cell--he was sure Daryl would have a million questions for him, and the teen would rather he heard the news from himself than some random inmate, who would no doubt dramatize the situation substantially. He really didn’t need his one ally thinking he’d started a prison riot... again.

Just as Carl stepped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his slim waist, he heard a pair of heavy footsteps approaching. Tensing, the teen looked up, holding onto the damp piece of fabric tighter.

Five feet away stood one of Negan’s cronies--long blonde hair and only half a face, much like himself. The man was silent, staring at Carl as if he’d just seen a ghost.

“Negan sent you?” He finally snarled, feeling immensely uncomfortable. He was nearly naked, and the two of them were alone--the odds were most certainly not in his favor if Blondy decided to try something.

“You’re a wolf?” Was the burned man’s only response.

Hearing the name of his old gang was like an electric shock. Carl could feel the hairs on his arms stand on end, and his eye narrowed as he subtly took a step backwards, closer to the tiled wall of the shower stalls. The muscles beneath the large tattoo settled between his shoulder blades rippled, sending a queasy feeling straight to his stomach. Not much scared Carl Grimes, but a group of psychotic, bloodthirsty criminals with a personal vendetta against him? Yeah, that kind of freaked him out a bit.

“Why the fuck do you care?” The teen growled, his gaze darting around for a possible escape route.

“Look, Kid, I’m not gonna hurt you,” Blondy began, taking a large step back and holding up his hands as if he was surrendering. “I just want to know if you ever spoke to my wife. Last I heard, she was running with the Wolves.”

Carl cocked a brow, his body calming slightly when he decided the other man was being sincere. He was interested now--information was valuable, and the teen was bound to have it.

“A man needs a name,” he said tauntingly, enjoying the way Blondy’s jaw clenched at his wife being referred to as a prostitute.

“Sherri. Her name is Sherri.”

Immediately, the memory of a tall, slender woman with light brown hair and tired, whiskey colored eyes surfaced in Carl’s mind. He remembered meeting her--he was still sixteen at the time, only having been on the streets for a few months. She’d caught him pickpocketing her, actually grabbing his scrawny wrist as it slithered into the pocket of her fancy fur coat. Instead of getting mad, she’d laughed, her smile full of shiny white teeth framed by bright red lipstick. She had called him cute, but told him he’d have to do better than that if he was going to be able to afford dinner.

Carl smirked slightly as he recalled the way the woman’s smile had melted into an impressed grin when he’d held her Rolex watch up in his other hand, having taken it from her wrist while she’d lectured him. A mischievous sparkle had appeared in her eyes, and she’d wrapped a fur-clad arm around his slim shoulders, happily telling him that he had earned dinner after all.

“Maybe I did, maybe I didn’t,” the teen answered after a moment, letting the memories fade into the background of his thoughts. “That depends how badly you want to know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you all for reading this, and a special thanks to my beta reader @cynthianicolexo, as well as the gal who inspired me to update, @AuthorGirl55!
> 
> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Mentions of CSA, Gang Affiliation, and Prostitution


	6. Momma There Is Only So Much I Can Do

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Carl recalls his relationship with Dwight’s wife and his past gang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I just realized it’s been about ten months since I updated this story lol. Also this in unbeta’ed so go easy on me.
> 
> Detailed Warnings at the end of the chapter.

Walking back towards his cell, Carl thought his head might explode.

His conversation with Negan’s blonde lackey had dredged up memories of bittersweet times, leaving him wrought with a feeling of nostalgia.

_“Well? Do you know her?”_

__

__

_“That depends how badly you want to know.”_

Of course Carl had known Sherri. She was the real leader of the pack, concealing her face—and more importantly, her legal accountability—behind the piling bodies of the macho men she seduced and used. She was a black widow, lethal, dark, and beautiful. And Carl had loved her.

_“Jesus fuck, Kid! Just tell me if my wife is alive or not!”_

__

__

_“Get your boss off my back and maybe I will.”_

He hadn’t loved her the way Dwight had (and still did, apparently). Regardless of how awe-inspiring she was, she was still a woman, and that did not appeal to his gay self.

No, he loved her like he once had loved his mother. Perhaps his and Sherri’s relationship was much more unhealthy than a typical mother-son bond, but it was incredibly strong, nonetheless. Sherri had saved him. She’d saved him, a total stranger, when no one else in his life would. She took him in and gave him a home, a family—everything he ever wanted. And all he’d had to do in return was work for her “family business.”

_“I don’t control Negan, you know that.” Dwight pleaded._

__

__

_“I guess I’ve never heard of your wife then.”_

The family business, which just so happened to be built on blood, crime, and lies.

_Dwight took a threatening step closer, but Carl held still. He knew the blonde was wary of him, even if he didn’t show it. Afraid he’d go over the edge and murder him like murdered the mayor’s son. Carl was grateful for his reputation. It made the metaphorical target on his back that much smaller._

At that point, Carl would have done anything for Sherri. She was his mother, his Queen, his Savior. She scraped him from the bottom of the barrel and made him a Prince, a God among Men. He’d happily die for her, but that’s not what she wanted from him. No, she’d recognized that hidden anger in his only remaining eye from the moment she’d met him—she had always been good at sniffing out untapped potential.

_“If you kill me, if you hurt me, you ain’t ever gonna find out what happened to your dear old wife,” Carl drawled, grabbing the hair tie from his wrist and pulling his long hair up, out of his unbandaged face. He reached for his clothes, doubting Dwight would flinch at the scarred mess._

Sherri took that repressed anger and let him unleash it, crafting him into the perfect progeny along the way. She turned Carl from a scared boy into a merciless beast; everything he knew about inflicting pain, he learned from her.

_The blonde was breathing hard, watching Carl dress himself with barely concealed rage. As soon as he’d snapped the last button on his prison jumper, Dwight was up in his face, close, but not close enough to touch._

__

__

_“Promise me.” His voice was angry, desperate. “Promise me you’ll tell me what you know if I do this for you.”_

The lying, the torture, the killing, it was all her. She’d never wanted a son, she’d wanted a weapon.

_Carl smirked, knowing he’d won._

So that’s what Carl became.

_“I always keep my word,” the teen answered. “Show me you can keep yours.”_

_Dwight nodded, stepping back._

_“I will.”_

That was, until he heard about the body of his little sister being found nearly five years after she went missing. Because when that particular skeleton fell out of his closet, not even God could stop Carl Grimes from exacting his revenge.

***

When Carl finally arrived at his cell, Daryl was, once again, livid.

“You had one job, Carl!” He yelled, pushing off from the cement wall. “I’ve told ya ta do one damn thing since you stepped through that gate, ‘n yet ya never fuckin’ listen!”

“My family visited,” he answered quietly, sitting down on his bunk heavily, the realization of his situation truly setting over him for the first time.

Dwight knew. Negan knew. Maggie and Glenn and Enid knew. They all knew something different, but they fucking knew.

Just like that, Daryl’s anger disappeared. Carefully, he sat next to his cellmate, faded blue eyes a mix of veiled curiosity and understanding.

”Yer old man actually came?” He asked, unable to keep the dubious tone out of his voice.

Carl hesitated, biting his bottom lip hard enough to make it bleed as he thought about how to answer.

“No. My real family,” he finally said, hoping Daryl would leave it at that.

Although obviously confused, the older man didn’t push, simply nodding as he let a contemplative silence fall between them.

“The supervisors called a meeting while you were gone,” he said after a while, getting more comfortable on Carl’s bed as he laid back. “They said some of us are gonna be able to take some therapy class or some shit in exchange for better privileges.”

Daryl, surprisingly, didn’t sound all that opposed to the idea. Raising a brow, Carl smirked.

“You gonna talk about your feelings for a longer shower, Daryl?” He asked, amusement leaking into his voice.

Daryl shrugged, huffing in an attempt to hide his embarrassment. Bumping Carl’s back not-so-lightly with his foot, he shook his head.  
“Not jus’ me, dipshit. Ya were on the list too.”

“The fuck?” The teen asked incredulously, standing up, fists clenched at his sides. The almost playful tone he’d adopted had vanished, snatched away by the impossibility of Daryl’s words. “Ain’t that shit only for the non-violents?”

“Nah,” the older man answered, his narrowed eyes sliding quickly to Carl’s uncovered scars and back. Carl shifted, his long forgotten insecurities itching at the back of his mind. “Therapy or classes or whatever is fer anyone the county thinks is redeemable. The prisons’re runnin’ outta space, ‘n lettin’ us redeemables off early fer rehabilitation completion or what-the-fuck-ever is their way of fixin’ that.”

“And you just expect me to believe that the hardass judge who sentenced me to be here well into my forties thinks I’m redeemable?” Carl spat, the burning resentment over his 25 year long stay rearing its head. “I think the fuck not.”

“Denise probably called you a psycho in ‘er report or somethin’. Says ya can be fixed with the right meds, I bet.”

Carl contemplated that, recalling the sad way the blonde doctor had smiled at him as he refused to answer any of her questions. He figured Daryl was at least partially right, but that his redeemable status came more from the horrific child abuse rather than psychopathy.

“Suppose so,” he said after a moment, deciding not to correct his cellmate. It was better if people thought he was a psycho. Safer.

“It doesn’t really matter anyway,” he added, turning around and stepping up to the bars of the cell. “Come meal time I’ll probably get dragged off to solitary again. I’m not deluded enough to think that I can get away with throwing a chair in the visitors area.”

Unable to staunch the reemergence of his frustration, Daryl stood up quickly. “What the fuck did you do that for!?” he growled.

Carl laughed loudly, trying to ignore the stab of pain that went through him at the memory.

“Maybe you’ll find out in therapy,” he said tauntingly, crossing the small cell and beginning to climb up the ladder to his bunk. Pausing at the top, he glared down at Daryl, all traces of amusement gone. “Or maybe you’ll mind your own fucking business.”

With that, swung his legs up over the railing and landed on his mattress with a dull thud, ending the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNINGS: Child Murder (mentioned), Gangs (mentioned), Unhealthy Relationships (mentioned), Swearing, Incarceration

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction can also be found on tumblr: @ why-do-i-ship-this (search masterlist)


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